


still sane

by nylondreams



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Anxiety, Childhood Friends, Concussions, Depression, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Future Fic, Identity Issues, Late Night Conversations, Love Letters, Robots, Skyscrapers, Stargazing, long sentences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylondreams/pseuds/nylondreams
Summary: Doyoung asks for a break from the universe. The universe gives him a concussion, extra work, a stray cat that won't stop climbing on top of the kitchen counter, friends who love to stick their noses in his life, and, to compensate, free coffee every other morning.





	1. doyoung

**Author's Note:**

> here's what happened in the span of a week: i decided to camp and watched her, blade runner 2049, short film i'm here, 2001: a space odyssey, ex machina, upstream color, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, 2046, marjorie prime, like 6 episodes of black mirror, and maniac. then i wrote this. can you tell i like sci-fi and future-set romance n melancholy?
> 
> english isn't my first language, hence the occasional mistakes/ weird sentences. there's an oc since writing y/n every chapter really wouldn't be aesthetically pleasing, also the title is a lorde song.
> 
> thank you for reading!

That Friday evening, Doyoung finds his best friend, Lee Taeyong, sitting on one of the many sofas located in the lobby of their company. It’s way past five pm, probably close to six, even, which means he should’ve already clocked out by now, yet he’s nested on the edge with an indecipherable face, fingers fidgety as always, his bag sitting by his feet. As Doyoung walks up to him with tentative curiosity, he observes that Taeyong’s hair looks dishevelled; every single one of his long, fiery red locks facing elsewhere like a mad scientist of sorts, or a 22nd century Medusa. Considering Doyoung has never seen Taeyong’s hair not-perfectly-in-shape even at times of crisis, that is kind of unnerving.

Walking down the overly-polished pathway from the elevator to the entrance hall, Doyoung calls for him when the other boy is in hearing range. His voice sounds too strange to his own ears these days; too fatigued, perhaps, but he puts that worry in a box and shelves it in his brain for another time, as right now his friend kind of looks like he’s had a number of breakdowns in the span of a few hours, fuelled by several mugs of caffeine. After all, pushing his personal problems under the rug until there’s no space to do so anymore is what makes Kim Dongyoung, well, Kim Dongyoung.

“Taeyong.”

Taeyong looks up from his fingers almost too quickly as if he was waiting for the call, his face instantly lighting up and the traces of worry that were there just a moment ago disappearing— which leaves Doyoung baffled. Even though he has learned quite a while ago that five-second metamorphoses from a complete wreck to probably-the-next-CEO-of-the-company are Taeyong’s specialty, it still surprises him like the first time.

“Hey Do,” Taeyong says, his expression that Doyoung’s come to associate with his concerned mother antics showing up between the cracks. He braces himself for whatever conversation that may come any minute about now, because even though he has no idea what Taeyong has up his sleeve this time, it can’t possibly be good. Lee Taeyong knows Kim Doyoung too well for his own good, and that means he’s aware of exactly which buttons to push to make Doyoung spill his beans about anything. In all honesty, Doyoung is tired of being unravelled.

So, he doesn’t smile back. He wants to, he’s not an asshole contrary to popular belief amongst their friend group, not all the time at least, but he’s had a shitty day; one of the new interns, Mark, has accidentally spilt his water all over his brand new shirt, the other intern Donghyuck just seems like he thrives on setting Doyoung’s stress level to the utmost degree, he didn’t have lunch today because his stupid ass forgot to write this monthly report, and he can feel his feet protesting every step he takes, _and_ Jesus, Taeyong is waiting to lecture him. Again. So in conclusion, Doyoung doesn’t smile back.

“You’re late.” Taeyong states. It’s just a simple sentence, but it’s enough to make Doyoung remember why he had fallen in love with the boy— and exactly why he had fallen out. He rolls his eyes.

“I was clearing up my data.” he says curtly. When he stops next to Taeyong, the shorter boy gets up and throws his bag over his shoulder (today he’s sporting the black one that has several puppies patched on it, and even though the poor pups look a little bit unevenly proportioned, it doesn’t matter to him, because the patches are a gift from Ten, he sewed them himself, and Taeyong loves encouraging his friends), his hand immediately finding Doyoung’s shoulder. He gives it a gentle yet firm squeeze. 

“Why though?” he asks, “Your writing is really nice.”

“It takes up too much space.” Doyoung answers, almost too quickly like he’s reading from a script he’s prepared in his brain. He did, kind of, at lunch break. Still, he barely stops himself from wincing. There were times in the past when he found his own words beautiful, when he was his favourite writer in the whole company, but he hasn’t felt that way in such a long time that he can’t recall the once-familiar warmth of pride in his chest anymore. It feels weird not being able to remember things you thought you’d never forget. Then again, these days Doyoung hardly has the energy to do the required bare minimum for about anything, so there’s that.

Taeyong squeezes his shoulder again and his two rings dig into Doyoung’s shoulder. “That’s why you use your OS, silly.”

Doyoung does wince this time, an ugly, twisted expression taking over his already harsh features. Sure, his operating system, his _companion, _if you will, would gladly take care of it all, but Joy is a little bit of a talkative bot and letting your OS take care of your personal stuff means getting involved in the virtual world even more than he wants to. He doesn’t like the idea of his words, a part of him by association, to be out there reachable by so many so easily, and it doesn’t help there’s no ‘no strings attached’ option in that world, which, Doyoung would gladly choose if it were. Taeyong sometimes calls him paranoid, but he can’t help it.

“I use Joy for other things.”

Taeyong grins in a knowing manner, all coral tinted lips and phenomenal teeth, as he leads the two of them to the exit. Doyoung doesn’t know what the grin is about— until he does, and when he does, he punches Taeyong in the arm, making the svelte boy almost fall with the force of it. Doyoung thinks it’s not his fault the elder is built like an honest-to-God twig.

“What was that for?!” Taeyong screeches, holding his right shoulder where Doyoung has hit.

“Joy isn’t my girlfriend.” Doyoung says through gritted teeth, pushing the big glass door open. It has been a little over six years since this whole operating system thing has officially made its way into people’s lives, yet he’s still on the edge about the whole thing. It certainly doesn’t help two of his close friends are basically the ones who finessed it. With great distaste, Doyoung side-eyes Taeyong, who’s busy pouting.

The realization once again dawns on Doyoung— no, it punches him in the gut— that he’ll probably never get used to it. He doesn’t voice what he’s truly thinking in order to not to upset the already-fragile boy further (not that Taeyong is doing that but whatever), but hello, _dating_ his personal bot? Doyoung is fairly sure he is qualified to write a book on how to fuck yourself over, and another one on why people like him probably shouldn’t be allowed feelings, but he still stands by his opinion that dating —and he’s using this term generously— an android sounds downright _repulsive, _call it the Uncanny Valley Syndrome or whatever, but that’s the case, it just doesn’t, and will never feel normal for him. If there’s one thing in the world he thinks he won’t ever stomach, it’s probably desperate —or _lazy_, or whatever, Doyoung doesn’t particularly care for the right adjective— people who are dating their OS’s instead of real people like themselves. Shouldn’t a basic human be able to discriminate between real feelings and generated ones? Apparently not. The way the rest of the world defines the word ‘real’ these days differs from how Doyoung himself does.

And it’s not like he lives with his head up his ass, Doyoung gets the drill: his birth has coincided with the Third Technological Revolution so by the time he was a middle-schooler, the first ever mass-produced robots were everywhere, which means he grew up with them in the first place, which means _he didn’t even know a time before the bots_. Androids, robots, automatons, whatever you want to call them, are so commonplace now that he doesn’t remember a time where they weren’t omnipresent; they are the baristas at the café he visits every morning, the conductors of the train he uses to go to work every morning, polices at the streets that report to their human headmasters. And even though the personal OS thing is pretty new and usually nothing more than some program you upload to your computer and cameras and speakers you place around your house so that it assists you—unless you’re extremely rich, Doyoung remembers the few CEOs who requested their OS’s to have bodies— people seem to fall in love with them more and more with each passing day, which nobody seems to bat an eye on, and it kind of drives him crazy. He really doesn’t understand, all he can do is recall Einstein’s famous quote about human stupidity and nod with a knowing face, because he _gets it_. Cheers, Mr. Einstein.

“Okay, tiger, whatever you say.” Taeyong hums, and how he’s eyeing Doyoung right now would probably drive him up a damn wall if it were a couple months ago, like he’s staring straight through him rather than seeing him as he’s actually there. Lately, it mostly just makes him feel exhausted.

After that, the two fall into a habitual kind of silence. It’s not necessarily a comfortable one; because Doyoung has a couple things he wants to say to Taeyong and Taeyong is practically visibly itching to keep the conversation going, but they’ve been friends for so long that now they can easily recognize a fight neither will be able to win. So silence it is, silence is okay. Silence is good, because now Doyoung can just walk in peace for a while, watching the sun gradually set beside them. He likes clocking out later than usual at times like these when he gets to see the different colours of the sky. It doesn’t matter which colour the sun decides to paint that day, because he likes the warm orange and golden hues, pastel lilacs and soft blues, saturated reds and hot pinks all equally. The sky makes him feel like something natural in a world full of synthetic still exists and he can hold onto it. It soothes his aching soul.

Talk about an aching soul.

As if on cue, Taeyong sighs beside him, and Doyoung remembers the thing he was supposed to ask earlier, repressing the annoyance that was there just a moment ago. “Are you okay?”

Taeyong had once said when he was drunk out of his mind at Yuta’s Christmas party that Doyoung is the master of statements that say one thing and mean about five more. Doyoung knows it’s because his job is with words, that people really shouldn’t take what he says seriously all the time, but it is what it is. Right now isn’t any different, _are you okay_ means _you didn’t forget the meeting, right? _It means,_ are you missing your old apartment? Ruby isn’t sick again is she? How about that promotion? _And a few more_. _It’s never as simple as it looks.

Taeyong knows that, too, obviously, seeing he’s the one who (drunkenly) came up with the Observation of the Year.

Still he chooses to draw the whole thing out, throwing him a “Why wouldn’t I be?” with his perfectly shaped brows up, looking just the right amount of surprised. He’s bathed in the late afternoon sunlight and all the right places on his face are shining golden-brown; his cheekbones, small nose, the middle of his curvy top lip all reflect the sun like the cutting edge of a diamond. Even his ridiculously big irises look brighter, their colour is that of molten chocolate, and honestly speaking, Doyoung is a little bit envious.

“You look…” —Doyoung scratches his nape searching for the right term— “…distressed?”

“Oh?”

Doyoung tries to look at Taeyong the way Taeyong looks at him, and sees that that single _oh_ is a camouflage for pushing himself through week upon week upon month of workload fuelled only by spite. It’s a camouflage for forgetting to eat, to _sleep_, and it’s a camouflage for weekly stress cryings and declining every social event that would inevitably conflict with a possible internship, or a report. Of course he isn’t fucking _okay, _none of them are_. _And yet.

“Yeah.”

So, Doyoung has a correction, a second part he couldn’t say to Taeyong that night at the party, because he himself was also drunk as fuck and couldn’t form a coherent thought: Doyoung is the master of statements that say one thing and mean about five more, and then backpedalling the moment he senses things are about to get deep. He kicks a pebble in his way, watching it tumble away. Taeyong runs bony fingers through his hair, his rings also reflects the lights, not so surprisingly.

“Huh, it’s busy at work these days,” he ends up saying, “How about you, Doyoung? You don’t exactly look all sunshine and rainbows either. How was your day?”

Doyoung shrugs, suppressing the tinge of annoyance that’s back on; thank you so much Mark, thank you so much Hyuck. “It was fine. I’ll be fine. Nothing happened.”

“Ah,” Taeyong sighs, “I’m just checking in, Do, why are you mad?”

“Oh come on, Taeyong.” Doyoung wants to snap that Taeyong usually pays more attention to Doyoung’s own life than he himself does, but they both know that already, and so he doesn’t want to waste his breath on it, not after he was the one who encouraged it in the first place back then.

He never intended to fall for Taeyong in the first place, which is the ultimate bitter, irony-tasting cherry on top of the entire situation in retrospect. It was just a wrong-time-wrong-place situation, born out of Doyoung’s incapability of having his emotions in check and latching them onto anybody who was willing to listen to him at that time, and it certainly didn’t help he was already in pain, and Taeyong had offered a shoulder to cry on. He still remembers Taeyong answering Doyoung’s call with a sleepy voice, then fully waking up upon hearing Doyoung’s squeaky one, closing the phone and finding him seven minutes after the end of the call crying on a bench around 2 AM near Han River. Taeyong, even in looks only, was everything Doyoung wasn’t at the moment; composed and attracting and beautiful, and Doyoung hadn’t hesitated agreeing with his offer to follow him back to his shared apartment with Yuta, who was staying at Ten’s attic for whatever fuck-all reason at that time. After that night, they had grown inexplicably close with each other. Shared trauma, or whatever. They had talked and talked that night about anything and everything over mint tea and ginger cookies, wrapped in blankets like they weren’t adults but two kids, even if they weren’t actually that close to begin with. It hadn’t mattered.

Still, Doyoung feels like the ultimate fool to this day. His views on relationships are so twisted that he interprets every half-baked, awkward affirmation of mutual attraction as just another favour to check off his mental list, and it wasn’t any different with Taeyong. Sure, deep down he knows, he _knew_, that Taeyong cares so genuinely, so openly about everyone, that this is just who he is as a person and his adoring personality or nurturing nature isn’t reserved for Doyoung and Doyoung only, and it still leaves a sour taste in his mouth; to think that maybe, _maybe_, his stupid little crush that started that night would’ve ended a lot earlier had he accepted that sooner. But by the time he realized Taeyong loves other people the same way he loves dancing or his dog Ruby or writing a love letter to a person he knows almost nothing about, Doyoung had already fallen for a side of him that was never really his to claim to begin with. 

“Right, right, sorry,” Taeyong kicks at the pebble Doyoung had previously kicked, initiating that universal game, then announces, “Ten wants to go out tonight.”

_ Oh so this is what we’re doing. _Suddenly the sour taste is stronger, Ten flavoured.

“Have fun.” Doyoung nods, childishly hoping Taeyong might let him off the hook if he pretends to not have understood his indication.

He does not.

“He wants you to come too dumbass,” Taeyong explains, “You would know if you hadn’t been avoiding us like the bubonic plague.”

Doyoung smiles humourlessly. He can’t argue with that.

“So you’re coming, right?”

Does he want that? Honestly, all Doyoung wants to do is to go home and take a long, warm bath —he may even use that bath bomb he had gotten as a gift from a co-worker, the one Ten had insisted on was a sign of flirting, he’s that desperate for a source of relaxation— and then get under the covers and try to empty his mind while Joy plays relaxing rain sounds on the background. Or bird chirps. Or a classical piece. Whichever. Maybe he’ll play all of them at the same time for a bigger effect, relaxation but it’s the bass boosted version, because Doyoung is generous on himself like that.

“Maybe I should just go home.” he mutters.

Taeyong looks at Doyoung the same way he looked at Ten when he had seen him ‘trying out’ dog food, brows raised and lips parted just a little. “It’s Friday. It’s almost seven. Even you aren’t this boring.”

Doyoung would be offended if he weren’t so goddamn fucking tired. “Maybe I _am_ this boring, Yong.”

Taeyong cackles. “No you aren’t. Look, there will be company tonight. Ten will bring someone from their company. Maybe you’ll like them.”

Just like that, Doyoung knows there’s no turning back. Taeyong has activated his _‘make Doyoung make new friends’ _card, mama hen mode on full force, so all he can do is sigh out an _okay, _curling inside himself as Taeyong closes every door that could possibly lead to an exit for Doyoung right in his face with a Cheshire grin playing on his lips. Three years of friendship —one year of it filled with one of the most intense emotional rollercoaster he’s been on in Doyoung’s case— and the alternating belief that Taeyong is both the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to him can be summed up in two words: _fuck this._

It isn’t as bad as it used to be anymore, thank God for that, but he still loves Lee Taeyong with every weak, milk-deficient bone in his body. And that’s reciprocated, whether either of them like it or not. They’re in it for life, because at the end of the day, they’re best friends.

“Cool.”

Sometimes Doyoung thinks he might be addicted to suffering, like, legitimately.

**+**

Later that night, when Doyoung finds himself squeezed between Ten and Yuta in a booth far, far away from the exit, and they’re arguing over whether 11.000 won asparagus from the convenience store is worth buying or not, he decides that he isn’t legitimately addicted to suffering, oh no, because the suffering is legitimately addicted to _him_. Sometimes Doyoung doubts these two really are the prodigies who graduated from their respective universities with the highest degrees and basically invented the first successful Operating System. Doyoung sighs dramatically, rightfully, over all the noise. The damn asparagus certainly does not worth it, if they ask him— which they don’t, of course. They just keep arguing.

Yuta’s shoulder is brushing against his, they’re knee-to-knee, and Doyoung wonders if it’s too hot in there, or if it’s just him. It probably has everything to do with the fact that he’s had a few drinks already, pretending to not acknowledge the fact that drinking while feeling gloomy probably isn’t the best of ideas, but what he’s once considered as ‘good’ ideas haven’t bring him anywhere remarkable in life, so the line is kind of blurred here, and nothing to do with the ‘heat’. He has no better option than to let himself lean into Yuta’s touch just a bit more, and he finds an absurd kind of comfort in how his friend’s arms flail violently trying to win the pointless argument, his voice filled with mock anger loud enough that he can almost feel it booming in his own chest. As Doyoung takes another sip from his drink, he thinks that it’s probably because of how familiar he’s become with this routine. Things chance in his life a lot, for better or for worse (a lot of the time for the worse), but at the end of the day, he still has his public hazards of friends and their concerning will to make a big deal out of every miniscule and/or hypothetical situation. They’ve grown on him, just like he did with them, in the same way one love their younger siblings even though they drive them to the brink of madness about twenty-four times a day. That’s what family means, he supposes.

Ten’s promised friend turns out to be a Chinese kid named Sicheng from SM Industries (where Ten and Yuta work at) — a spaced-out looking individual whom Doyoung hopes he’s pronouncing the name of correctly. He’s currently sitting right in front of him, his choice in hair colour (bright yellow with a gummy pink undercut) kind of burning Doyoung’s eyes, and he looks like an alien (an alien that’s probably a supermodel where he’s from) with his plump lips and a pointy right ear. He’s smiling drunkenly at a Taeil who is sporting the same kind of eye-burner bright hair, but his one is hot pink instead. They’re also talking, even though Sicheng’s Korean is broken as hell and Doyoung is sure he occasionally hears Mandarin thrown in there too, and Taeil is too drunk —or too nice, or both— to point it out, so he can’t exactly say they’re communicating. The saddening thing is that even the new kid seems to be enjoying himself more than Doyoung does, who knows how things work around here in this group.

Because the suffering’s never enough and always addicting, he decides to eye Taeyong, only to see him looking right back at him with disappointment clear in his unnervingly big eyes.

_Why are you looking at me like that? _Doyoung tries to convey with his eyes, hoping he got the message across.

_Why are you acting like a wet blanket? _Is how Taeyong’s eyes reply. His eyes also point to Sicheng and Taeil while growing extremely bigger in size, inclining that he should join in. This is the first time Doyoung realizes how dangerous it can actually be when you and your friend reach that stage in your relationship where the two of you don’t necessarily need words to speak.

Deciding to be childish, Doyoung’s eyes turn back to his fingers wrapped around his glass, after throwing a _watch me not do that. _He frowns in an annoyed manner, his lips pressed in a thin line. Of course he knows Taeyong is just trying to help, he knows he hasn’t been anywhere near okay since his ex partner demanded a broke up and so Taeyong just wants to fix him, but can’t a man deal with his pain on his own for a while? Perhaps it wouldn’t bug Doyoung as much if Taeyong actually understood what he missed was the _idea_ of the said ex, and not the ex herself. They had been together for almost five years after all; so the break up was like losing a part of his life for good.

In a world where people depend so much on technology that they have long forgotten how real human relationships work, Doyoung clearly hates the fact that he’s lost a person who listened to his troubles and gave him genuine advice since she was born into this world as a real human person who didn’t have to fake pity or love or anger, or emotions basically, who wasn’t programmed, who had a goddamn _form_, for fuck’s sake. Downing the rest of his drink in one go, Doyoung thinks he deserves to be upset with the world for a while, and to bear his solitude on his own, screw what Taeyong thinks. He lets his head fall onto Yuta’s shoulder, who welcomes it gladly, because that’s just how Yuta is. He’s cosy and always up for skinship anyway, and if taking advantage of your friend like that for one (1) time is a crime, than sue Kim Doyoung.


	2. doyoung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this episode was literally inspired from me getting unexplicably mad at a bath bomb named butterball when it was shaped like a goddamn HEART. damn.
> 
> ps: this episode is a bit bloody!

When Doyoung was put to bed as a small kid, his favourite activity for a few months had been tiptoeing out of his room after he was sure his parents thought he was asleep, so he could watch what they were up to from the top of the stairs, safely hidden behind the railings. They had told him many times that after nine PM was the “adult time”, and even though he wasn’t completely an adult, he thought he should’ve been _considered_ one. He was the tallest kid in the whole class, and his teachers frequently gave him those star stickers because he was so well behaved, wasn’t that part of what being an adult meant, anyway? Being tall and well behaved? No for his parents it was not, apparently.

He’d observed them talking to each other, glasses of wine in their hands (of course he didn’t know that was wine back then), and watching movies most of the time. He couldn’t understand what was so “adult” about that, since they seemed to talk to each other when he was present too. Doyoung guessed it was probably the movies, because his parents usually stuck to cartoons or comedy movies when they were with him, but after he “went to bed”, he had seen them watching more exciting —sometimes scary and weird— stuff. It had been a fun few months before he was bored of it, but to this day, he can still remember this one movie for reasons unknown.

It was quite a tragic movie and he still has no idea what the title is, but the image of a boy throwing himself in front of the bullet to save his lover is etched in his brain like his grand grandmother’s embroidery on their throw pillows. He remembers the girl crying, the blood gushing out of the boy’s wounds, he remembers the two holding hands, and he remembers them saying their last words to each other. He had run to bed after the scene because his mom had gotten up to check on him, but he remembers thinking about the movie long after that night, thinking how brave the boy was for doing such a thing, and how he wanted to be like that. It was a twisted thought for a five year old to think, but the damage was done. Looking back at it, the reason Doyoung has grown up to be such a wreck of a person is probably those late night secret movie sessions. If he has kids someday, he definitely will find a better way to keep their precious brains safe.

And it’s pathetic how he still hasn’t managed to cleanse his poor brain from that fucked up dying-as-a-hero thought completely; it’s truly terrific if he does say so himself. Even right now, he’s thinking about it. He’s half-lying-half-sitting on the cold floor of his bathroom, leaning back on the bath, blood gushing out from his forehead, and he’s thinking; _this is so stupid_. _So. Fucking. Stupid._ _I was supposed to die gloriously._ He’s almost cracked his skull open, perfect precursor for a full-on cerebral haemorrhage, and all he can think about is how there’s nothing glorious about lying butt naked on an overly big bathroom’s floor, all alone. His stupidity seems to know no boundaries. Sorry, Mr. Einstein. He sniffles.

He had come home half past midnight. He had come home half past midnight and he was only slightly dizzy and almost fully capable of walking and thinking straight, so he was like _yes, okay, let’s call this a day. It’s finally over. I deserve a bath. _Holding a shaky hand to his forehead, Doyoung wonders genuinely why his mouth has to be so goddamn big. 

“Doyoung, are you okay?”

He’s far from it. He’s whimpering, his lips are trembling, and he’s thinking, _what did I do to deserve this? What, exactly what? _One moment ago he was bathing in silence, the lights dimmed down and the bath bomb put to use, finally feeling his tense muscles giving in to the warmth of the water, and now he’s on the cold hard floor, grimacing in sudden pain and shock. Looking like a sad, wet rat.

“I don’t think so.” he squeaks, trying to pull himself up to a sitting position _slowly_. He wants to laugh so bad, but his head is pulsating really hard and he’s scared beyond belief, so much that he can’t even think straight, so it will have to wait.

He should’ve known, though, that nothing ever works out the way Doyoung wants them to work out, because Kim Dongyoung’s been acquainted with the universe for a good 23 —almost 24— years now, and he’s experienced it front-seat that it has a funny way of pulling cards out of its sleeve. He actually knows beforehand the universe isn’t tender; it’s just that he’s unbelievably dense sometimes, dense enough to let it slip his mind.

“Why?” His operating system, Joy’s silvery voice cuts his ugly, sticking panic in half. “Something happened?”

“I hit my head.”

Maybe after all, Doyoung isn’t as sober as he believed to be so earlier. Catching his own eyes staring back at him on the wet tiles, he realizes how pathetic this whole adulthood thing is, and that he sucks at it pretty bad, also.

“What? How?”

“I just... I just fell while showering, Joy. And I kind of cut my forehead open, that’s about it.”

There’s no point lying to Joy, because Doyoung has learned a few painful experiences ago that he would rather not remember, lying to your personal assistant doesn’t get you anywhere in life, if anything, it makes things harder. 

Especially when the situation isn’t even his fault in the first place.

Because this time it really isn’t, it’s the stupid bath bomb. The stupid fucking vanilla-butter smelling thing has made the bath slippery and now he has to deal with an ugly cut that’s bleeding into his right eye. He should’ve thrown it away the moment Ten had said Jisoo was flirting with him by giving this as a gift, but there was a part of him that was just really, _really_ curious about how bath bombs worked, so obviously, Doyoung had to indulge. Stupid bomb. What kind of a name is _butterball _anyway? When the thing itself doesn’t even come in the shape of a ball (it’s a heart)?

“Are you able to stand up by yourself?”

The answer in his brain is a _no_, and Doyoung means it both in the metaphorical and the literal sense of the word; he feels like a dying star. Truth is, he hasn’t stopped feeling that way since the day he’s enrolled in university, and now the feeling has become so persistent that it’s nothing more than an annoying background music in the elevator that is his life, Doyoung distantly remembers that in psychology there’s a name for that, but he has no idea at the moment. Maybe this is kind of like depression. He thinks depression after years of having it isn’t even sadness to him anymore, it’s just being exhausted and being allowed one emotion a week and sometimes his brain is like, “die” and so he’s like, “shut up Doyoung.”

Focus Doyoung, focus. Right.

He has to focus on the matter at hand right now, because he may actually die. Oh God, what if he dies here, alone? In his overly sophisticated bathroom, naked and covered in water and blood and cold sweat, and what if people find him like this, _oh_, _God,_ what if _Taeyong_ finds him likes this—

“Doyoung? Should I dial 911 for you?”

With a wince, Doyoung manages to spit out a “No,” then he takes a shaky breath and, “Just tell me what to do.”

“Describe me what happened, please. How bad is it?”

Oh, right, Doyoung vaguely remembers Joy is nothing more than a simple assistant and she doesn’t have a form. Doyoung hasn’t even installed any cameras around the house for her to see what’s happening around. He may be miserable at the moment but he still doesn’t regret his decisions, even in this state it feels creepy to have a bodiless AI bot being able to observe him so freely.

“There’s blood. Like, not so much, but there’s blood. And I feel dizzy. Am I going to die?”

“Every living thing has to stop existing at one point.” is how Joy replies. Doyoung doesn’t know if he wants to cry or laugh, so he opts to do neither. He’ll have to report her answer to Ten and Yuta next time he sees them though, is this how these things are supposed to reply?

“So,” Joy speaks up again, oddly cheerful, “I did a quick research and concluded that it would be the safest option to visit a hospital for you, but…”

“But what?”

Doyoung hoists himself up holding onto one corner of the bath, and, holy shit, has he always been this tall? The ground feels so far away from his body and he’s just _blown away_. He walks up to the sink and pushes his wet hair back to inspect the wound on the mirror. He’s terrified, but he’s also as stubborn as a goat, so he really doesn’t have so many options here. Drops of water run down through his torso and back, pooling around his feet.

“You could visit no 278, too.”

“What?” Doyoung furrows his brows. Did the hit slowed his thought process down or something? He walks up to the sink and turns the tap on with a wave of his hand, starting to clean the wound with water.

“Her name is Seohyun, and my research has told me she has a certificate in first aid.” Joy giggles, and it’s always been an unnerving thing to hear for Doyoung because Ten had once told him that the sound base used for the OS’s consisted that of dead people’s too. He was most likely bullshitting, because it sounds like something he would say to scare Doyoung, he wouldn’t put it past Ten. But still.

“Oh, great,” he mutters, “I’m dying here, and you’re trying to set me up with a girl. Great motives, Joy, wow.”

Joy giggles for the second time, Doyoung thinks, _please don’t do that, oh God_. “You don’t have a first aid kit though, and you’re afraid of blood, and you hate hospitals. It’s just convenient.”

Doyoung considers. He’s already slightly dizzy thanks to his friends, and his current condition isn’t helping anything at all, and Joy may have a point. He presses his lips together and sighs, indicating defeat. Grabbing the towel by the sink and pressing it to the wound, Doyoung decides scratch everything before, because the relationship between him and suffering is decidedly mutual.

“Fine,” he mutters, “you win.”

Joy cheers.

Doyoung mutters something indecipherable under his breath as he walks up to his bedroom, so he can at least put on some clothes. His pace is equal to that of a snail’s, but it’s the best he can manage at the moment, as every slightly faster movement leaves him breathless, threatening to split his brain in half in the form of the nastiest headache known to men.

Reaching his room, he plops down on the bed and rests one elbow onto his knee. What should he even wear? Like if he just put on his pyjamas, would it be weird? But then again, wouldn’t it be weirder showing up at someone’s door in the middle of the night dressed fully? Oh God, it really is the middle of the night and Doyoung can’t think straight. Maybe he’s about to have a concussion or something. That wouldn’t even be funny, because Doyoung is sure, at this point, that the universe just has it out for him. Sometimes he wishes he had that stupid luck of Ten. His wish, not surprisingly, is never granted.

“I’m assuming you’re still home, judging by the lack of the sound of your front door closing.”

Doyoung hums. “I’m about to leave.”

After another moment of inner monologue (or is it a dialogue? Doyoung has never had one single voice inside his brain, there’s always two or more opinions going in there), the headache seems to win, so he gets up from his bed and walks up to the wardrobe, the few steps have him cursing at how big his house actually is, considering he’s the only one living there. Has been for a while. Maybe he should move out. Maybe. He pulls the old sweatpants sitting in a far corner up his bare legs blearily, and then turns around, grabbing the first shirt he sees that’s laying on the floor. He’s aware he looks sketchy, like someone who his neighbours would think shouldn’t even be allowed to enter the reception hall of their apartment complex, but possible death is on the other side of the equation, so.

So, he leaves.

The corridor, same as the other 69 floors, is well-lit, and the lights placed on the ceilings and walls bathe everything around Doyoung in a sharp, creamy glow. Everything is quiet right now; the two bonsai trees placed at the other end of the corridor are still as ever, the red wall to wall carpet under his bare feet is soft, and the tempered floor to roof window right behind him seems to shield any sound the outside world makes from going inside. Outside, Seoul is a beast that never sleeps: always a crowd on the streets, laughing and singing and shouting, the constant buzz of the billboards and fluorescents, helicopters of cops, or riches done with the traffic. Inside, it’s so quiet that he thinks if someone were to open their door, they could probably hear Doyoung’s heart beating hard against his ribs loud and clear. Or his ragged breathing. Or his occasional sniffles. The slight scraping noise his nails make on the wall as he traces his way from his door to his neighbour’s.

He finds it really hard to walk the twenty or so steps to his neighbour’s door, but when he finally reaches his destination, he sees that her doormat has a cat painted on it —huge, white, and giving him the middle finger— so it’s kind of like a reward, you know, since cats are cute? Well, this one is an obnoxious and slightly dizzy reward, and it makes Doyoung giggle. Still moving his palm through the wall, which feels rough and cold under his warm and clammy touch, his fingers land on the doorbell. He rings. Once, then twice, because he’s shameless enough, and Doyoung waits.

He doesn’t know how long he waits for, honestly, because in the state that he is, seconds feel like molten caramel dripping into one another, stretching until eternity. Then, the door opens.


	3. seolhyun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! i started working again and with the uni also starting, my ass is getting kicked, kinda...

Jung Seolhyun sometimes (read: most of the time) hates other people with every fibre of her being. She especially hates a certain giraffe named Seo Youngho, also known with his American name Johnny, or Seolhyun’s Personally Assigned Pain in the Ass, when he laughs and goes, _‘I mean, that’s not a lot of fibres you got there, short stuff.’_

It is because of the job, mostly. Partly. Doesn’t really matter. She hates the fact that twenty four years on this earth was all it took to turn her into one those people who hate their jobs, but here she is, sitting before the mirror at almost two in the morning, her mind feeling like it’s thrown inside a blender alongside with anger, shame, and self-hatred for some bitter-tasting smoothie. In all honesty, Seolhyun is more than ready to crawl up to her warm bed and finally call it a fucking _day_, but it isn’t like she can just go and do that. Not to get fake-deep or anything, but nothing is simple in the ‘modern’ world like that. Oh, the irony.

Because, for one, Johnny’s on the phone.

“I think your outfit was really pretty tonight, it wasn’t the outfit was it?” he’s asking, voice sounding too buzzed to her ears from the other end of the line. Maybe it’s just her patience wearing thin.

“No,” Seolhyun huffs, “I dressed exactly the way that asshole described.”

Johnny hums and goes quite for a moment, but a weird shuffling sound fills the empty space. Finally he speaks again. “It’s the time you quit, Seol” he says, “Why don’t you talk to Jae and he can get you—”

“Johnny, dude, answer me this: how do you think I’m able to afford this place?” Seolhyun hisses, harsher than intended. She takes a quick look at her place through the mirror, stomach churning. She knows that feeling well, it’s called regret, and she hates herself because it has been ten-something years into their friendship, yet, her pride chokes down the necessary apology still. It’s quite mind-blowing how her pride decides to act out only when she doesn’t really need it.

Johnny sighs, and it’s such a sigh that Seolhyun can almost picture her friend rubbing his forehead in frustration. “Okay, I’ll push you not right now, but later,” he says, then, “You sure you don’t want me to come though? You sound like shit.”

Seolhyun rolls her eyes so hard she thinks she might’ve snapped an optic nerve. “I love it when you boost my confidence like that.”

With that, Johnny is giggling, and Seolhyun is reminded of all those times she’s called Johnny in a panicked or sad mood, only to get him more worked up than herself by accident, therefore resulting in her having to calm _him_ down, almost every single time. Johnny may be as tall as a skyscraper, he may have mastered the art of being comfortable in his own skin, or he may have the bodyguard-ing skills for his small counterpart —his words— near to that of a professional’s, but at heart, Seo Johnny is a giant dog who isn’t aware of the fact that he is in fact, well, _a giant dog_. He’s inexplicably cute in all the ways Seolhyun can’t be.

“That’s my job.”

Seolhyun hums approvingly, throwing a used piece of cotton into the small trash can under the vanity. Without speaking she grabs another piece of cotton and soaks it with makeup remover, dabbing it on her left eye to get rid of her eyeliner. It kind of burns.

There’s something really painful about having to wipe off a really well done eyeliner, or makeup in general; a feeling Seolhyun associates with her inability of letting things go. She knows by now though that it’s a universal feeling, because the evidence to it is everywhere. Humanity invented the cameras for that, there’s videos and movies and photos, those new moving memories thing where you can print out short videos, and there used to be so much written stuff, and they’re all here just because people don’t want to face with the fact that nothing they own is eternal and everything’s doomed to just… disappear. The world goes on, the _universe_ goes on, has been doing so for the past something-billion years, and as far as Seolhyun is concerned, it doesn’t care about what humans want. Seolhyun isn’t mad at the universe. If she was the universe, she wouldn’t give half a fuck about humanity either.

She sighs involuntarily, changing yet another cotton ball with a new one. Taking his background noise maker job seriously, Johnny is humming a light tune, voice still static, and they aren’t speaking. She loves the level she’s reached with her close friends, where they can just shut up and enjoy each other’s silence for a minute or two. Usually with other people, she gets this urge to speak about whatever stupid thing when there’s silence between them. When it’s Johnny (or Jaehyun) though, it’s the opposite. When it’s them, the quiet is more relaxing than one would’ve ever thought. She used to think cheesy stuff like that didn’t happen outside literature, but look at where she is now.

“Hey, Johnny,” Seolhyun says out of blue. The makeup remover soaks into her fingers.

Johnny hums.

“I love you.”

Johnny is giggling again, and Seolhyun realizes no matter how mad she can be, or how hard she can claim that Johnny is bad at calming her down, it won’t work, because he’s a perfect human being and whatever he does to put Seolhyun in a good mood just _works_ every time.

“We’ve been friends for like ten billion years now, it would probably be weird if you didn’t.”

Johnny is the expert of killing any mood.

Seolhyun sighs. “Shut up, Jonathan.”

“Oh my God, don’t.” Johnny whines, not maturely. He may be the expert of killing the mood, but Seolhyun has her own guns, too.

“Johnneth.”

“Nope.”

“Johnson.”

“Seolhyun.”

“Johnster.”

Johnny sighs. “Okay, whatever, I’m shutting up. Message taken.” But he opens his mouth again even before Seolhyun can start counting down the seconds as to when he’ll do so. “I’ll never let you forget this, though, just so you know, Jung Seolhyun.” He reminds. She can imagine the trademark sly smirk accompanying his words.

Seolhyun sighs. “Is Jae home?” She asks then, just to distract the blush from creeping up her face.

“He’s in his roo— oh, nope, he just walked in—”

“Hello Hyunnie, I heard Johnny calling your name!”

Just in time, Jaehyun’s over-excited voice reaches Seolhyun’s ears, so loud that she grimaces. She greets him back with a more normal tone, smiling once again when Jaehyun starts rambling about a dog he’s seen on his way home today, or something like that. She doesn’t have to be there in person to see the Jaehyun’s arms flailing around, brows raised. Eyes glowing. Maybe, just maybe, she’s in love with her friends, or whatever.

At around five minutes into his speed-talking, Jaehyun remembers to breathe for a split second, and it’s probably the fresh oxygen getting inside his brain that reminds him about her, so he asks how she’s doing. Seolhyun doesn’t find it to be so much of a lie when she mutters an “I’m fine now.”

Because she actually is.

“Now? Did something happen?”

Seolhyun has no mental energy to go through everything again, so she exhales, murmuring a _no_. Johnny will probably tell him everything in detail after hanging up, and they’ll most likely show up on her doorstep first thing tomorrow evening after work. That’s just how things work between them, and Seolhyun can’t exactly say she hates it. Not always at least.

After all, this is what friendship means, or that’s how she supposes so. In this age of technology and everything artificial, where people run away from communicating with each other face-to-face like their life depends on it, she really is glad she has two people who are, in one way or another, on the same wavelength as her.

It’s the same even in the apartment complex she lives in. She remembers watching and reading about neighbours actually knowing each other, old stuff, and there are a few stories of her grandparents like that, but it feels like a faraway dream now. Maybe the world is too ‘modern’ for that now.

That’s why when she hears the front door ringing —at almost three AM, she thinks— her brain almost short circuits, and she has no idea what to do. It _could_ be Johnny (and/or Jaehyun) despite her earlier protests (it wouldn’t be the first time), but they know the passcode, and it can’t be Yukhei either, because he doesn’t quite seem to have a perception of boundaries or personal space when it comes to his friends; he’d just barge right in. It especially can’t be the landlord, who, uses his OS to take care of everything, she’s kind of sure she hasn’t seen the guy once since she’s moved in, and it has been years. Not really sure he exists. A chill takes hold of her with that, causing tiny mountains and valleys to erupt over her skin. This leaves her with only one option, and she’d give_ anything _to not see Lee Sooman at her front door right now. She thinks she would much rather go to sleep and wake up at least halfway charged before she has to take shit from people again.

There’s another, second ring. Longer this time.

“Is that the doorbell?” Johnny asks, and Seolhyun jumps at the sudden booming of his voice. And just like that, the first option is crossed out. 

“Yes, I should take it, probably.” She gets up and her finger hovers over the end the call button for a moment, then, “If I die right now, order tulips for my funeral. Not roses. Tulips, got it? Talk to you tomorrow.”

Johnny hums. “Definitely. To both.”

“Goodbye Seolhyun!”

Ending the call, Seolhyun jumps to her feet and walks to the entrance, careful not to hit the canvases, boxes of paint, and several pots laying around on the floor haphazardly, almost the perfect proof that she lives alone, unsupervised. The door doesn’t have a cam that works —thanks to Yukhei who somehow thought it would be a good idea to try if the device was waterproof on her own damn door— and she has neither bought the latest product, nor gotten the old one fixed yet, so her best bet is leaving the door chain on. She unlocks the handle and creaks the door open, peering through the crack in the frame to see who has requested her attention at such an hour. Relief floods her system when she doesn’t see a short, perpetually buzzing man, but it is short lived as the person actually leaning on the threshold with one hand is none other than that guy from two doors down the hall.

She’s seen him around.

She doesn’t know his name but he is quite handsome; all long legs, slender arms and broad shoulders that carry any kind of coat (or jacket) oddly well, and of course there’s skinny jeans and dark hair and slim fit button-ups, but all in all, it’s an uneasy sort of handsome. The type of handsome that is best left alone, admired from afar so that when it inevitably implodes, you are well out of range of the shrapnel. Seolhyun has already seen him with a girl a few times, so there has never been any reason to approach him, if she’s being honest. Not like she would approach him ever, with or without a girl present, but whatever.

Right now, though, the dude looks like a truly different person. He looks so different that Seolhyun has to blink a few times to make sure this guy is the same as before. Maybe this is his twin or something, anything’s possible.

He’s wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants, no shoes nor socks, and his shirt seems like it has seen better, way better days. He’s holding an orange towel to his forehead, his wet hair’s dripping down, eyes hazy. The only indicator that convinces Seolhyun he can’t possibly be the twin that hasn’t been outside once in his life is that he still manages to look intimidating, somehow. Maybe it’s his cold eyes, or maybe his clenched jaw, or maybe it’s the fact that she has never heard him talk before. Whatever it is, she doesn’t stop the sceptical look creeping up her face.

That is until he smiles at her apologetically, and suddenly his handsome, chiselled features dissolve into crinkled eyes and an overall apologetic look, and she feels her brain stumble trying to keep up with the drastic change that’s taking place right before her eyes. She kind of forgets all her misgivings because of how white his teeth are.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is also betraying his looks, “I’m Dongyoung. Doyoung.”

“Uh,” Seolhyun says intelligently, “one sec.” She closes the door, unlatches the door chain and reopens it. “Hello Dongyoung. Doyoung. I’m Seolhyun.”

He chuckles like her joke was funny but he shouldn’t laugh because he’s in pain, or something like that, if the pained press of his lips following his laugh is anything to go by. He inhales, steadies himself, and then says, slurring a little; “We’ve seen each other in the hall and around the foyer a few times, but I’ve never introduced myself, which is a bit ridiculous, sorry.”

“I would’ve been more surprised if you had, to be honest,” Seolhyun finds herself admitting, “I don’t have much to do with anybody living in this building.”

“Yeah,” Doyoung rubs the back of his neck with his unoccupied hand, “Same here. Not many people here who think it’s a good idea to get to know others.”

Seolhyun lifts a suspicious brow, waiting for him to continue. She hasn’t taken the mysterious looking guy down the hall to be like _this_, so open for communication, and there’s still some anxiety left in her. There’s also disorientation too, like they shouldn’t be here standing in front of Seolhyun’s front door in the dead of the night; two strangers observing each other in what is possibly their weirdest, most out of context forms. Her in a fancy dress but with dead eyes, possibly smudged makeup. Him in a hand me down pair of sweats and bare feet. Maybe Seolhyun is thinking too hard. It’s probably that. On more than one occasion, Johnny has told Seolhyun she worries too much, thinks too hard, that it probably isn’t normal. Maybe she should see a therapist or something. _Really, Seola, why don’t you give it a go?_

“So, uh, I’m kind of dying.” Doyoung suddenly blurts out, interrupting her chain of thoughts, while looking at her through his wet fringe. Seolhyun doesn’t bother hiding her surprise because frankly, after two AM, there’s no filter to her emotions. Most people are probably like that. The thought _out of context_ pops in her head once again, alongside a memory of a drunk Jaehyun slurring something about how afterhours should be counted as liminal spaces. Drunk Jaehyun seems to be right. Drunk Jaehyun should probably run for president, or something.

“You’re kind of _dying_? Huh? And why are you here?”

Doyoung winces slightly, pointing at the towel on his forehead. “I cut my forehead open accidentally and I don’t have a first aid kit. Other neighbours don’t exactly look the friendliest. Also, uh, blood kind of really freaks me out.”

Seolhyun wonders what qualifies as “friendly” for Doyoung, as she isn’t quite _friendly_. However, “Oh okay, let me see it, I have a certificate in first aid, come in.” is what she finds herself saying, having apparent trouble keeping up with her brain. She steps to the side so Doyoung can get in but instead of stepping in like a normal person would, Doyoung stumbles forward like a graceful giraffe, making Seolhyun squeal. She grabs him instinctively with all she has, which is barely above 50 kilos, and grimaces because they’re so close and under some kind of vanilla smelling shower gel (or conditioner? Perfume?), he smells faintly of soju.

“Are you drunk?” she asks. Just to be safe.

“I got dragged along. And I. I washed my forehead. Yeah. I did.” Doyoung says like it explains everything, fingers digging into her shoulder. Seolhyun huffs, walking him to the open living room area. One step before another. Right and left. Then right again. Slowly.

Reaching the sofa, Seolhyun drops the confused looking guy as gently as she can manage. He puffs out loudly, head dropping on the back of the couch on an instant, eyes inspecting the painting hung above the couch, from upside down. It’s a replica of Fabritius’s _Goldfinch_, and honestly the only reason a painting so special is up there visible to every curious eye so easily is that Johnny thinks it’s one of the best artworks she’s ever imitated yet. There’s also the reason that she has limited space in her apartment, and there are only so many walls she can hang something on. Consequently, since she’s also obviously against the idea of selling her _kids_, every corner of her apartment should be covered with paintings. Her friends’ walls should be covered with paintings. Their working spaces should be covered with paintings. That’s just how things roll around there.

As Doyoung murmurs something that sounds like a “Hello, bird,” Seolhyun leaves him to go to the bathroom, where she can grab the first aid kit. So far, it looks like Doyoung is either having a mild concussion or he’s pretty shaken up, and she thinks she doesn’t need to clarify which one she prefers to deal with. When she comes out of the bathroom, his head has dropped on the armrest, and he’s hugging one of the two cushions to his chest, eyes droppy. Seolhyun realizes the blood seeping through the cloth on his forehead for the first time since he’s came in, and her heart clenches momentarily with meaningless anxiety.

“Could you sit up a little bit straighter for me please?” She asks, walking up to her beloved orange sofa, and to Doyoung, of course. Humming, Doyoung obeys like a puppy, eyes lingering on something behind Seolhyun. He whistles, holding the towel to his forehead again, nodding like he’s pleased with what he’s seen. Seolhyun looks behind herself to see one of her rather depressing paintings, sitting silently on the easel placed next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She calls it _Misery_. Jaehyun’s friend Jungwoo calls it _‘how my insides look after the weekly meetings.’ _Jaehyun just hums, unclear if he’s agreeing or not.

“Are these all yours?” Doyoung asks Seolhyun as she sits next to him, placing the box down between them. She stops, looking up genuinely surprised. Does he really not know?

Maybe he’s trying to make _small talk_. Not one option is better than the other. Assuming he has an OS, because if even she herself has an OS then everybody has one, it wouldn’t even take half a minute for Doyoung to find out everything about Seolhyun. He could’ve learned the name of the schools she’s attended, where she worked before and where she works now, what her favourite snack is, what she likes to do in her free time, the names of her past pets, the song she sang back in elementary school for the Memorial Day. Anything. One simple question would’ve provided Doyoung with every useless bit of information easily, everything he wanted to know about Lee Seolhyun, so what’s his deal, really?

“Yeah, I paint.” She decides to say cautiously, in the end. She fishes a few alcohol wipes out of the bag and rips one package open, nodding slowly.

Doyoung hums, mumbling something unintelligible. It doesn’t even sound like Korean and at this point, Seolhyun wonders once again if he’s actually okay.

“What?” She asks gently, taking hold of his hand that’s pressing the towel to his forehead and pulling it away, so she can reveal the scar—

And, _shit_.

“Doyoung-ah, this looks kind of serious.” She says slowly, eyes round.

Doyoung looks at her with even rounder eyes, like a bunny’s, and they’re so glossy that for a moment she thinks he may start crying. 

“What?” He asks, shaky, voice in a tone that indicates she may be just right about the crying part. Seolhyun sometimes hates to be right.

She puts the wipe down and tries hard not to frown so as not to upset Doyoung more, even though a nasty headache is crawling its way up her temples. She holds Doyoung’s towel-holding hand and presses it back at his forehead, nodding reassuringly.

“I think we should go to a hospital,” she says.

Doyoung gulps, his mouth opening and closing rapidly a few times like a fish out of water, then he _wails_. “I’m scared.”

“Okay—”

“I’m scared, Seolhyun I’m scared,” Doyoung wiggles his body, looking down, and Seolhyun has no idea what the hell is happening right now. She is fairly sure this is a concussion and he’s not _that_ drunk, and she isn’t fucking qualified for that, and is a stranger really planning to die on her right about now? She needs to calm down. She needs to take a breath, hell, take ten breaths like Johnny taught her to do so when she doesn’t feel ready to bless the masses with her intelligence, and calm. The fuck. Down.

Yes.

She inhales deeply as Doyoung keeps on whining like there’s no tomorrow, then does the only reasonable thing a reasonable person should do when there’s another person with possible brain damage is having a breakdown before them. She leans backward with one hand still glued to Doyoung’s, and with the other she grabs the water spraying bottle she uses for her flowers that’s standing on the coffee table, and she sprays Doyoung square in the face two times.

“Hospital. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i please get some kudos or comments i am a leo dom i need validation to live


End file.
